He’d bet on hours, a day at most. A man who wanted to run from England as far as Milan wasn’t the sort to offer a lady long to think through a proposal such as his. Jonathon also knew, without a doubt, Manning had left behind debt in England.
Jonathon made a mental reminder to see to them, on the off chance they tried to collect through Isabella. The merchants would be easy enough, but he had a strong suspicion Manning’s debtors included the less than savory.
“We left two days later,” she acknowledged with a small nod. “From the moment we boarded the ship, I was introduced as his wife, though we never married.”
He wondered if that was as much for his benefit as it was to share this part of her past. Now that they were properly married, neither needed a bigamy charge leveled against her.
“You were stolen from your home and your family.” Jonathon tightened his fingers around hers, still beneath his touch.
He felt the faintest of movements then her fingers threaded through his. “I did not go unwillingly,” she reminded him pointedly.
“Nevertheless,” he insisted, “he didn’t treat you honorably.”
“No,” she whispered. “He did not. But,” she said stronger, “those first few months were happy.”
Jealousy slammed through him now, but Jonathon roughly pushed the unwanted, unwarranted, emotion aside.
“It wasn’t until later that things altered between us,” Isabella continued.
He watched her in silence and then felt her relax further. When she next spoke, it was with a touch of humor.
“I was better at cards than he.”
Jonathon laughed, unable to help himself. He watched a real, happy smile bloom across her face in response. “Then he was completely unworthy of you.”
Isabella smiled at him, her eyes sparkling, her shoulders relaxed; the fingers against his squeezed his hand.
“I bared my soul” — she tilted her head — “and my body to you today. What of your exploits? There must be many a maiden you’ve left behind on your travels.”
But her smile was still very real and her question, though curious, held no censure. Jonathon easily brushed that aside. It was clear she wished to change the subject, to deflect further questions about her past. He didn’t mind; he’d no desire to push any more than he already had.
He wanted Isabella to trust him; they were to be partners for the rest of their lives. At the very least, they needed trust between them. And that meant allowing her the time she needed.
“There’ve been other women,” he told her honestly. “But I’ve never been dishonest with them. And they’ve never expected more from me than the trinkets I’ve left them as gifts.”
But he nodded as if in answer to her unspoken question about his life, his loves, his affairs. “I’ve never had the type of feeling that caused me to abandon all I knew for another. However, I do admire that in you. The ability to feel so deeply.”
“Don’t,” she said sharply, cutting him off. “Do not admire that.”
But Jonathon suddenly realized he wanted that. He wanted to feel for a woman so deeply he did reckless, mad things. Simply to be with her. He gazed evenly at Isabella and wondered if it were possible with her.
When she smiled at him in understanding, fingers again squeezing his, eyes alight despite her previous words, he thought maybe he truly could have that with her.
“I think my mother had that ability,” he said and shifted against the pillows. “Once. But I never did see it. My father certainly did not.”
Isabella moved and leaned against the pillows, her legs drawn up until they nearly touched his. She didn’t release his hand, but rested her head against the headboard. “Was he unyielding, your father?”
“Quite.” He swallowed the harshness of that terse word. “He wanted a proper young son who dispensed with frivolity and did his duty as heir to the dukedom.”
Isabella frowned and her other hand came up to brush, just once, along his jaw. As quickly as her fingers touched him, her hand fell back to the bed. “I take it,” she said with an apologetic twist to her lips, “he wouldn’t have approved of our match.”
Jonathon laughed, not the startled amusement of earlier, but one that still held some humor in it. With a wickedness his father hadn’t managed to destroy one iota, he said, “The old man is pounding on his grave, ready to have my hide.”
Isabella returned his smile and then frowned. Her free hand clasped around his, until his fingers were held loosely, if warmly, between hers. “Does that trouble you?”
Jonathon reached over the slight space between them and cupped her cheek. “Not in the least. Tell me,” he said swiftly, “what’s the first letter you wish to write as duchess? Or shall I guess?”
She blinked at the sudden change in topic. But he could see her thinking about it, the knowledge she truly was the Duchess of Strathmore. How the reality of her situation spread through her, written over her beautifully delicate features for all to see. For him to see.
“Come.” He climbed out of bed, uncaring of his nudity, and held his hand for her. “You’ll write your mother on my stationery.”
Isabella laughed and allowed him to tug her from their bed. She reached for her dressing robe, and though he didn’t want her to cover her body from his gaze, he waited as she did do.
“Yes.” She grinned widely up at him. “It’s perfect.”
Chapter Eleven
After leaving Milan, they’d stayed in Genoa for nearly two weeks.
Genoa was a wondrous little city tucked between the water and the mountains. Stone buildings stood proudly along charming piazzas flushed with merchants of all cultures. Isabella felt as if she’d traveled back in time several hundred years, with the colorful villas built into the hills and mountains of the coast.
Vibrant silks from the Far East and exotic spices from the Arab world lined nearly every stall. In addition to Italian, Isabella heard French and pieces of Austrian. She’d spent so much time speaking only Italian, she’d nearly forgotten the French she’d learned from her tutors. As she bartered with the street merchants, much of her French returned to her.
Isabella did wonder how the city had changed since the wars and the redrawing of power, but as with most people she’d met, the Genoese simply lived their lives.
Lived their lives as she and Strathmore were learning to do.
Strathmore had rented a villa in the main section of the city and given his title — their titles. It hadn’t been long before they’d been invited to all the best parties and balls. From there it’d been a simple matter to gain entrance to the famed Grimaldi Gaming Hall.
But it was after, as he escorted her home from a ball or a night of gaming or the opera where Isabella found it most difficult to reconcile her life. Her new life.
They made love every night, oftentimes in the early morning as well. It was passionate and connected them, she thought, but afterward, Isabella rarely knew how to act. She didn’t want to let the closeness growing between them influence her.
However, the intimacy between them had only escalated since their first night together, when they’d spoken openly and honestly as they’d shared parts of their past.
She’d thought often of pushing him away, finding another room whenever he wanted to share his stories. Strathmore never left her. Never forceful or demanding, he was merely there — inquisitive as a young boy who wished to know all the secrets of the world.
He wanted to know all her secrets.
Now, weeks after their marriage and several days into the ocean portion of their long trip back to England, Isabella still didn’t quite know what to make of her husband. She felt unbalanced — not by a turn in his temperament as she expected, but by a deepening of his affection. Odd how this man who had not known her two months ago and had been cornered into this marriage exhibited such a level of affection for a stranger who shared his bed. Isabella did not know how to interpret his actions, his kindness.
She and Strathmo
re took a turn about the deck, careful to keep out of the sailors’ way. His hand smoothed down her back to settle for a brief moment on her waist. Arousal pooled low in her belly at his touch. It had become instinctual and warmed her in the cool breeze, a warmth that spread through her until even her fingers tingled with remembered want.
With renewed want.
Isabella recalled what this was like, this desire, these feelings. And she remembered how dangerous they were. How dangerous they’d been with Manning. She wanted to change her nature, wanted to be different from the young girl she’d been. That fool.
A fool who had followed her baser desires. A girl who wanted to run from her parents.
Her fingers brushed the peridot and gold bracelet on her wrist, worn to serve as her reminder of what uncontrolled emotions could do.
She swallowed hard and took several deep breaths of the salty Mediterranean air. Her fingers curled around Strathmore’s arm, and she studiously kept her gaze on the horizon. Away from her husband’s handsome profile.
If she asked a question of his life prior to knowing her, Strathmore answered with an honesty that took her aback every time. While she always hesitated with her own answers, she eventually answered truthfully.
Isabella licked her lips and tried not to let memories of their time together distract her. The way Strathmore looked as he climaxed within her, head thrown back, muscles straining, her name on his lips, it was impossible not to want him again.
How could it be that in such a short time the dance between them had become so instinctual? Become more than what it should be. And that, often, confused her.
And while she was hardly one for propriety, enticing even one’s husband back to their cabin for midmorning sex seemed very un-duchess-like.
Even if Isabella knew for a fact he’d be easily enticed.
They approached the Strait of Gibraltar now, and the steep cliffs looked as if they towered over the waterway like majestic castle walls as the ship slowly made its way between them. Suddenly Isabella felt small against the green beauty of the strait.
She leaned her head against Strathmore’s arm, just a moment of weakness. His hand came up and rested atop hers, squeezing gently. Shocked at her own behavior, Isabella straightened. Had she ever shown such affection in public? Even with Manning?
No, and she couldn’t believe she’d done so here, with Strathmore. She cleared her throat as they continued their turn about the deck. What was it about Strathmore that tested her resolve to keep an amenable distance? That had her showing him such affection after so short an acquaintance?
Strathmore was so different from Manning, and Isabella didn’t think he’d sour on her simply because she proved better at a sport than him. She’d bested him in cards once, had she not?
With a rather significant wager, at that.
Manning, Isabella realized now, had never touched her like Strathmore did. He made love to her, and he brought her to orgasm, but afterward he never held her. Never stroked her back. Never cupped her cheek and kissed her as if the only thing in the world he wanted was to memorize her taste.
She wondered if Strathmore had done so with other lovers. Had been so affectionate. With her, he was all that and so much more, and Isabella didn’t know what to make of it.
Had she made such a poor choice in Manning. Yes, she had.
To be fair, it’d only been a few weeks, and Isabella didn’t know Strathmore as well as she might. But from what she gleaned, he was an admirable man. Despite their shaky start, Strathmore clearly sought to make this marriage as legitimate and reasonable as possible.
He’d said quite plainly that he wanted no question as to the validity of their marriage and any heirs they had.
More, Isabella knew he meant it.
“Are you chilled?” Strathmore asked, his voice low and close.
“Isabella looked up, only then realizing she shivered against his touch. “No, I’m moved.”
She shook her head, not wishing to break the moment, the stunning beauty of Gibraltar, the softness and familiarity, between them.
“And what moves you?” she asked, still in the same soft voice. “What has taken your breath?”
Strathmore smiled, looking very smug indeed. “Aside from the sight of my wife in all her bare glory?”
He kept his voice low so the words did not carry.
“And before that particular sight?” she asked, unable to keep the humor from her voice. “Was it always a woman in her bare beauty?”
His green eyes danced with wicked delight. She knew he enjoyed verbal sparring with her, enjoyed the mischievous conversations they shared. She did as well and met his smile with her own.
“The first time most certainly,” he agreed. “But then it changed. I was always moved—” he emphasized the word and leaned closer —“by the new and exotic. But the most affecting sights are home and the faces of those I care for.”
“Tell me about them?” she asked, curious. Strathmore often talked of his past, but very little of those close to him. “Who is it that warms you? Granville?”
Strathmore nodded. “Yes. He and I have been friends since we were young. His country estate isn’t far from my own. His sister, Octavia, is very much my younger sister as well.”
“Being so close to Granville and his sister,” Isabella said carefully, unsure if she wanted the answer to her question or not. “Did she not expect to become duchess one day? Was that part of your hesitation in honoring our wager?”
He leaned closer, caught and held her gaze. “It was not.”
A breath Isabella didn’t know she held released and she nodded.
“Lady Octavia is beautiful and vibrant and more of a sibling to me.” Strathmore shook his head and offered a slight smile. “We simply don’t view each other in that manner.”
He paused and when he spoke again it was slower, each word drawn out. His hand clenched on the railing once, then purposely released.
“Granville and I are like brothers,” he continued. “We have caused our share of mischief and protected each other when necessary.”
“Protected from what?” she asked. The wind blew unyieldingly at her hair and she impatiently pushed a loose lock behind her ear.
“Uncomfortable situations,” he said. Then Strathmore straightened and looked down at her. Not in close of the conversation — but in sharing a confidence. “Similar to what you endured with your parents.”
He paused again and her heart ached for him. She knew all too well what growing up in an intolerable household was like.
“I don’t want our child to experience what we have during our childhoods,” he said quietly and sincerely.
“No,” Isabella whispered and swallowed against the sudden lump of emotion lodged in her throat. “I don’t want that either.”
His gaze did not leave hers as he spoke and another shiver raced up Isabella’s spine. Strathmore leaned down, his lips gentle against hers.
“We’ll make certain of that,” Strathmore promised. “We will do better for them.”
Again that lump of emotion clogged her throat and all Isabella could do was nod.
They needed to move; the sailors needed to work, and their presence on deck only hindered them. The controlled chaos around them moved with fluidity as sailors hauled ropes and shifted sails to catch the wind. Three chairs had been bolted to the deck at the stern of the ship for the passengers, just out of the way of the anchor and the large coiled rope that held the anchor in place.
The privileged passengers danced around the sailors; they tried to escape the stale air inside the ship and didn’t care if they were in the path of the men or not.
Strathmore, on the other hand, set them to the port side, near the stern. He kept them separate, where they weren’t nuisances to those working.
She licked her lips as Strathmore turned them from the railing, and they made their way along the port side, dodging ropes and lines. She watched him, watched as his gaze flick to her lips a
nd his eyes darken.
That small move had aroused him. How was it that she and Strathmore enjoyed a more intimate relationship within a few weeks when she and Manning had been together for months — a year — and she’d never felt so with him?
Perhaps it was simply the newness of this marriage that engendered such feelings.
“Isabella.”
She peered up at him, curious, but he only continued to watch her, his attention solely on her. This odd sexual friendship growing between them puzzled her. Was it not better to make love to a man she considered her friend than a complete stranger?
Yes, Strathmore had been right in wanting brutal honesty between them.
She only hoped that didn’t change once they returned to England. Isabella frowned and wondered what it’d feel like — what she’d feel like — when they did finally make it to Strathmore Hall. She was duchess now, and while that was listed on the manifest, neither she nor Strathmore announced it.
Both preferred to travel simply; neither wanted any gossip to follow them nor for their families to realize where they traveled before the appropriate weddings took place.
Their marriage — could it possibly be enough to care for their children better than their parents cared for them? When she looked into Strathmore’s eyes, Isabella almost believed it. They were so close now and everything she’d felt before boarding this ship was now confused and jumbled.
There was no place here Isabella could be without Strathmore; nowhere she had a moment to herself to collect her thoughts or move away from the tumult he caused.
Isabella looked up at Strathmore then purposely looked away, though the beauty and majesty of their view no longer appealed to her. She needed something else to focus on.
The letter she’d written her mother before leaving Milan came to mind and she latched onto it.
She’d dutifully written her mother with the information that she’d married the Duke of Strathmore, and had never been so glad for the slowness of mail across the Continent. Alison Harrington wouldn’t receive the letter until Isabella and Strathmore were at least in Ireland.
Improper Wager: Scandalous Encounters Page 9
